


be mine tonight (be mine forever)

by artenon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, Love Confessions, Other, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/pseuds/artenon
Summary: Aziraphale knows he’s a solitary person. He knows Crowley may very well be his only true friend. He doesn’t mind this. He does, however, very much mind learning that his coworkers have a betting pool on whether he’ll be coming alone to the department holiday party next week. He especially minds when he learns that the reason there is a betting pool in the first place is because their intern, young Newton Pulsifer, is the only one naïve enough to believe Aziraphale might have a date.-----In retaliation to a bet made against him, Aziraphale asks Crowley to be his date to the office holiday party. Certainly there are no flaws to be found in this plan. Certainly the secret love Aziraphale has been harboring for Crowley for the past several years won't be an issue. Certainly not.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 194
Kudos: 1413
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works), Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	be mine tonight (be mine forever)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katherine1753](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/gifts).



> this is my good omens holiday swap fic for katherine1753!! "need a fake date for Christmas AU" is a FAVORITE trope of mine, so when i saw it in your prompts, i was like, "well, i can't NOT write this." and so write it i did... eleven thousand words of it, somehow. i tried to include all the things you asked for, and perusing your ao3 told me you also liked some good old touch-starved fluff, which i ALSO love, so i threw that in as well. i very much hope you like the finished product!!
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to [ailurea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurea) and [sugarmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarmagic) for beta'ing!! you saved my LIFE. and thank you katrina for cheer-reading!! i appreciate you so much!!
> 
> (as a note, for human AU i headcanon aziraphale as agender and crowley as non-binary. both of them use he/him pronouns in this fic, except for she/they being used for crowley for a few lines)

Aziraphale is rather miffed about the whole affair, which makes Crowley’s endless amusement all the more vexing.

“Hold on, hold on, tell me again,” Crowley says when he’s finally stopped laughing. He’s grinning with absolute delight, cheeks scrunched up against the frames of his dark glasses. “Michael said _what_?”

If it were possible for Aziraphale’s scowl to deepen, it would. As it is, he’s already scowling at maximum capacity. “Michael said that I’m _stuffy_ and that it’d take a miracle for anyone to tolerate me long enough to date me. Uriel agreed and said that I’m standoffish! Do you think I’m standoffish?”

Crowley only cackles, and Aziraphale throws a crumpled napkin at him.

Aziraphale knows he’s a solitary person. He knows Crowley may very well be his only true friend. He doesn’t mind this. He does, however, very much mind learning that his coworkers have a betting pool on whether he’ll be coming alone to the department holiday party next week. He especially minds when he learns that the reason there is a betting pool in the first place is because their intern, young Newton Pulsifer, is the only one naïve enough to believe Aziraphale might have a date.

Crowley scoops the napkin Aziraphale projectiled at him off the ground. He swaps his half-eaten tray of food for Aziraphale’s empty one and deposits the napkin into it. “Who cares what they think? Michael’s a wanker. Uriel’s a wanker. The whole of BD are a bunch of wankers, ‘cept for you.”

Normally, Aziraphale would offer up a protest here, that the Business Development team has a job to do, and goals and expectations just like everyone else, and they aren’t specifically _trying_ to make life in Engineering a living hell. He only doesn’t because it’s a tired debate. Certainly not because he’s currently feeling uncharitable towards his colleagues who apparently make bets against his love life.

Aziraphale digs into what remains of Crowley’s tofu curry. “But do you think I’m standoffish?”

“We-eeell,” Crowley says, dragging the syllable out in a way that doesn’t bode well for Aziraphale. “From what I hear, you aren’t the most pleasant person in the office, angel.”

Aziraphale hardly notices the years-old nickname, sarcastically given and unironically stuck, but he makes an offended noise at the rest of the insinuations. “I’m professional! It’s not as if I’m rude; I just don’t see a reason I should act overly friendly.”

“Right,” Crowley drawls. “S’not because you actually hate all human interaction. Why are you in BD again?”

“I don’t hate human interaction,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley says nothing.

“I spend time with you, don’t I?” Aziraphale says.

“Oh, yes, of course! And I’m so honored every time you grace me with your presence.”

Crowley grins at him. Aziraphale glares. Crowley is being entirely unhelpful, and they only have about ten minutes left in their lunch break. Aziraphale projects his unhappiness through the hunch of his shoulders. He’s very practiced at that.

Crowley leans forward over the table, propping his chin in his hand. “Fine, fine. Michael thinks you’re impossible to date. So then, when you said you needed a favor…” He trails off, eyebrows quirked and mouth twitching like he’s about to crack up again.

All right, it’s true that Aziraphale has been working here for several years now and that he has never, not once, brought a date with him to any of the office parties (he doesn’t go to team outings; outings are tiring, and bowling alley food isn’t nearly as good as the catering they get at parties). It’s just a fact, and Aziraphale can’t deny that. But that’s his professional self; his private self is an entirely different case. Being a bit uptight at work doesn’t mean that Aziraphale can’t have a partner, or be a loving partner himself.

It’s not the case, of course. But it _could_ be. That’s the takeaway, here.

“Yes, I am asking you to be my date at the office party,” Aziraphale says. “And yes, I want us to act as if we’re terribly in love while we’re there.”

“Ha!” Crowley chortles.

Aziraphale sniffs. “Well, are you in, or aren’t you?”

“You are a petty, petty bastard,” Crowley says happily. “Of course I’m in.”

* * *

Aziraphale has a significant stash of pens in his desk.

He didn’t mean to accumulate so many, only, oftentimes when he’s called to someone’s desk and uses a pen there, he forgets to give it back before returning to his own desk.

He keeps them all in his drawers along with the rest of his office supplies because he doesn’t like to be interrupted by coworkers asking to borrow things. When Gabriel approaches him on Friday just as Aziraphale is about to leave for lunch and asks for a pen, Aziraphale knows it’s an excuse.

“Thanks,” Gabriel says when Aziraphale hands him a pen that he’d accidentally taken from his desk two weeks ago. “I don’t know where all the pens in this office always disappear to.”

Aziraphale glances guiltily at his drawer. “I can’t imagine.”

“By the way,” Gabriel says, breezing past the issue, “I noticed you marked down a plus-one for the party next week. I’m assuming that was in error?”

Aziraphale stares, gobsmacked. He really shouldn’t be, because he knows Gabriel, knows he is the type to draw conclusions and assume with confidence that they are correct, but still. _Still._

“It wasn’t in error,” Aziraphale says.

Gabriel raises both eyebrows. “Really. You’re bringing someone. You.” He doesn’t even dignify Aziraphale with the uptick of a question, his tone flat with disbelief, and Aziraphale goes straight from surprised and a bit discontented to outright _peeved_.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and then, before his good sense can catch up to his mouth and stop him, adds, “I’m bringing my spouse.”

Finally, Gabriel is caught off-guard. His eyes widen comically and he blurts, “You’re _married_?”

For a brief moment, Aziraphale relishes in the expression on Gabriel’s face. And then—

 _Oh no_ , Aziraphale thinks, his good sense rolling in, surveying the hopeless situation, and departing again with a shake of its metaphorical head.

Well, as the saying goes, in for a penny…

Aziraphale squares his shoulders. “Yes,” he says. He is about to owe Crowley so many favors. It’s fine. “Yes, I am.”

Gabriel frowns, then seems to pull all the shock back inside him and furiously squash it down to present a calm exterior. His eyes flick down to Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale realizes he’s twiddling his fingers nervously in front of his stomach and stills.

“You don’t wear a ring,” Gabriel notes.

“Ah.” Aziraphale slides his right hand over his left, covering his fingers. “Neither of us are very much the type.”

“I see.” Gabriel nods slowly. “You’ve never brought anyone before.”

“Schedule conflicts, you know how it is,” Aziraphale says. He’s realizing now that, of course, Gabriel must have asked about the plus-one in the first place because of the betting pool. Aziraphale wasn’t actually thinking about that when he declared that he was married, too annoyed by Gabriel immediately dismissing the notion of him having a plus-one as a clerical error. He hopes he didn’t just ruin his plan to get back at his coworkers with his rashness. He clears his throat awkwardly. “The holidays are a busy time, after all…”

“Hm,” Gabriel says. Aziraphale frets what inconsistency Gabriel might point out next, but then the frown disappears from his face, replaced by a magnanimous smile. He claps his hands together. “Well! I’m looking forward to meeting—them?”

“They don’t care what pronouns are used to refer to them. He/she/they are all fine.” Aziraphale sighs. Fine, he owes Crowley some mischief. “Actually, if you plan on telling anyone else that I’m bringing my spouse, they would be delighted if you were to use a different pronoun with every person you speak to and make no attempts to clarify any confusion.”

Aziraphale usually uses he/him for Crowley, or otherwise adopts whatever the person he’s conversing with is using to avoid confusion. Crowley, of course, thinks confusion is hilarious. And Gabriel will go along with it, because Gabriel loves a good prank. It might just be the one thing the two of them could bond over, if Crowley wasn’t so adamant in his dislike of Gabriel.

Probably for the best. April Fool’s is bad enough as it is without those two joining forces.

Gabriel nods. “I look forward to meeting them, then.”

He turns away and strides off without further comment. Aziraphale hovers for an awkward moment, then decides that counts as a dismissal and that he’s free to go.

He heads out for lunch, checking his phone on the lift down, and his heart sinks a bit when he sees a text from Crowley: _sorry angel, can’t make lunch today_.

Eating lunch together is a tradition that wasn’t formally arranged so much as happened by chance enough times that it simply became expected. Aziraphale hadn’t even realized how much he anticipated Crowley’s company until the first time Crowley messaged him that he had to stay in the office through his lunch break.

Aziraphale’s food tasted unusually bland that day. He’s a solitary person, he always has been, but lunches without Crowley feel a little bit lonely.

The lift dings, announcing its arrival on the ground floor. The doors slide open smoothly on their tracks. Aziraphale exits and takes a few steps to stand by the wall, and painstakingly types out a response to Crowley.

_Thank you for letting me know. Are we still on for tonight? -A.Z. Fell_

Friday night dinners are another tradition, and—after that interaction with Gabriel on top of Crowley being unavailable for lunch—one Aziraphale would hate to miss. He tries to tell himself not to feel too disappointed if Crowley says he’s busy.

Aziraphale is halfway to the food court across from their office building when Crowley replies.

 _ugh yes_ , he says. _drinks at yours after?_

Aziraphale smiles, unease unknotting in his stomach. It won’t take much longer to reach the food court and he can reply to Crowley while waiting in line to order lunch, but he moves to stand under the shade of a tree and replies right away instead.

_Sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to it. -A.Z. Fell_

* * *

Dinner is pleasant, for all that Crowley spends most of it complaining about Gabriel and the rest of BD. Apparently the reason Crowley missed lunch was because of Gabriel making a last-minute decision that a new feature needs to be deployed on their app by next Friday, before the holiday rush. It’s going to be long days next week to get it done on time, and what right does Gabriel have to rush a feature just because the governor mentioned in a tweet that he uses their service and just wants “one little thing”?

So Crowley says, anyway, and complaining about Gabriel always makes Crowley feel better. Aziraphale nods at the appropriate intervals and lets him rant and wonders, as he often does, how it is that being with Crowley can feel so much better than being alone.

After dinner, they head to Aziraphale’s flat and settle in the living room, each equipped with a full glass of red wine. Aziraphale sits neatly in his armchair while Crowley slouches on the couch that is only technically Aziraphale’s—Aziraphale can’t even remember when he started thinking of it as _Crowley’s couch_.

It’s not the only thing in the flat that Aziraphale considers to be Crowley’s. There’s the mug he always uses, for example. And then, of course, there are the lights. Aziraphale had long ago replaced all the lights in his flat with the kind that had adjustable brightness settings. Whenever Crowley is over, Aziraphale makes sure to keep them dim enough that Crowley can remove his sunglasses without hurting his eyes; at present, the glasses are off and folded on the coffee table.

Having social engagements in relative darkness like this took some getting used to at first, but it’s comfortable now. Comforting, even. With the blackout curtains drawn and the lights set to a consistent low, everything is fuzzy-edged, soft, and time feels languorous. It could be morning or evening outside and it wouldn’t matter either way. Here is a carved-out space set apart from the rest of the world, a space that’s his and Crowley’s, and no one else’s.

Aziraphale sips his wine. It’s warm going down his throat, drawing a pleased hum out of him. He watches Crowley idly swirl his own drink in his glass before bringing it to his lips.

“So,” Crowley says after his first swallow. “Out with it.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale says.

“You were quiet during dinner. What’s on your mind?”

Aziraphale scoffs in a way he hopes is convincing. “If I was quiet, it was only because you had so much to say about my colleagues.”

“Mostly Gabriel, he’s the worst.” Crowley flaps his hand. “But don’t deflect. You also let me pick the place tonight even though it was your turn. So. What’s bothering you?”

Aziraphale sighs, caught. “There have been… developments.”

“Developments,” Crowley says.

“Regarding the party next Friday.”

“Spit it out already.”

“I… may have implied to Gabriel that I’m bringing my spouse to the party.”

Crowley coughs. His slouch becomes marginally less slouchy and he coughs some more. “ _Implied_?”

“Fine, I told him that I’m bringing my spouse. Look, I—I panicked, all right?”

“Wow,” Crowley says. There’s a white flash of teeth, a grin in the gloom. He slumps back down into the cushions. “Right, back up and tell me how this even happened.”

“He assumed that I RSVP’d with a plus one by accident! Well, I was quite cross, as one might imagine, so I said, ‘Actually, I’m bringing my spouse.’ Honestly, the look on his _face_. Although,” Aziraphale adds, chagrined, “once he recovered from the shock, I’m fairly certain he immediately began to suspect the entire thing was a sham. So. We may have to step up our act.”

“Woooow,” Crowley says again. “First you want me to be your whore, now this. You must take me for a chump.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I never wanted you to be my whore. And I will owe you greatly if you still go through with this with me. Lord knows Gabriel has already spread the news that I’m married and bringing my partner to the party. If it makes you feel any better, I told him to use a different pronoun every time he mentioned you.”

“Oh, _angel_ ,” Crowley croons, hand to his chest. “You should know you never owe me anything. So what happens after?”

“After?”

“After the party. I mean, we work at the same company, and everyone’s going to think we’re married. Getting fake-divorced will be a bit more intense than fake-breaking up.”

That… is very true. Aziraphale should have perhaps thought of that, but he wasn’t thinking much at all when he dug himself into this lie, was he?

He ignores the tiny stab of discomfort in his abdomen at the notion of divorcing Crowley, even for a marriage that never existed in the first place. There’s no point in dwelling on such silly feelings.

“I can’t take back what I already said to Gabriel, so we’ll simply have to figure it out,” he says.

“I am considering the outcomes of a long con,” Crowley says.

“Disastrous, I would think,” Aziraphale says. “Though it’s not as if I’m likely to ever have the real thing. Marriage, I mean. So I wouldn’t miss out on much by appearing unavailable, as it were.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Crowley downs a large swallow of wine. “Well, we could tell ‘em later that it was revenge for the whole betting against your love life thing. Or we could get fake-divorced, quietly I guess, and just mention it offhand later. Or, _or_ , we could ‘fess up that we’re not married and that you only said we were in revenge for the betting thing, but we _are_ actually together. And then you propose to me after the party ‘cause you feel bad about lying, and then halfway through our engagement, like five months from now, something happens and everything falls apart and we break up and it’s a whole thing.”

“That sounds very dramatic,” Aziraphale says.

“I like that one,” Crowley says, sounding far too eager at the prospect of potential drama five months from now. “Can we do that one?”

“The fake-divorce option you described sounded perfectly suitable to me,” Aziraphale says. He feels another tiny stab of discomfort at his words. He ignores that one, too.

“Ugh, no fun,” Crowley says. “Fine, fine. To our marriage!” He raises his glass in the air, and Aziraphale mirrors the movement. “Suppose we’d better get to work now.”

“Work on what?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley lowers his glass from where he was about to take another drink. Despite the darkness of the room, Aziraphale can tell Crowley is giving him a significant look.

“We have to get our story sorted. People are curious bastards, and Gabriel already suspects something’s up. Gotta be prepared for anything. Where’d we go for our honeymoon, do we want kids, and such. How long’ve we been married, why do you call your spouse by their last name?”

Besides the fact that _everyone_ calls Crowley by his last name (he wasn’t named Anthony J. Crowley when they met, and then he was, and then he decided he just liked Crowley but didn’t want to think of a new last name), those are all very good points.

Goodness, he really didn’t think this through at all. It’s fortunate that he always has Crowley to cover his blind spots.

“Right,” Aziraphale says. “Let’s get started, then.”

* * *

“Okay,” Crowley says some time later. “Okayokayokay.”

Aziraphale isn’t sure precisely how much time has passed, but he does know that their brainstorming progress has not been steady. Conversation meanders, as conversation does, and Aziraphale in particular is fond of chasing tangents. Crowley is usually the one to steer them back onto the proper track.

“Okay,” Crowley says again. Over the course of three glasses of wine, he’s gone from slouching on the couch to slumping all over it, long limbs laying claim to all three seat cushions. His wine glass, long empty, is tipped over on the carpeted floor. “So. How long’ve we known each other.”

Over the course of three glasses of wine, Aziraphale has gone from sitting upright to slightly slouching in his armchair, because _he_ doesn’t slump. He didn’t mean to become quite so inebriated, really, but it’s all too easy to slip into the comfortable warmth of a wine-drunk haze when he’s with Crowley.

“S’easy,” he says, staring thoughtfully into his empty wine glass. “We started working ‘round the same time, so’s been, um, twenty… twenty…”

“Long damn time,” Crowley suggests.

“Yes.”

“And… how long’re we pretendin’ to’ve been together?”

“Gosh,” Aziraphale says. He’s not one to talk about his personal life at work, but he wonders how long even he could reasonably expect to go without ever mentioning he was married. It wouldn’t be something he actively tried to hide, but he wouldn’t be jumping to share the news, either.

Come to think of it, how long could _Crowley_ go without ever mentioning he was married? Crowley likes to hide it, but Aziraphale knows he has a soft, romantic soul. He’s cried at _every_ romantic comedy they’ve seen together, no matter how trite. Aziraphale has, surprisingly enough, never known Crowley to date anyone in the years they’ve known each other, but he can imagine he would be the type to talk and talk about his partner.

Aziraphale has the sudden nervous hope that Crowley won’t have too much trouble fabricating nice things to say about _him_.

But back to the matter at hand. Aziraphale casts about for a number that’s not too high, but still high enough to prove to his colleagues that he can be in a loving, long-term relationship. “Perhaps… together for the past eight years? Married for two?”

“Took fuckin’... six fuckin’ years for you to propose?”

“I just picked a number. Didn’t put all too much thought into it.”

Crowley mutters something that sounds like, “‘Cause I’m the only one putting _effort_ into this backstory.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “I’m putting effort. If y’wanna talk about what’s likely to happen, I would think _you’d_ be the one to propose.”

“Nah,” Crowley says.

“No?” Aziraphale says, surprised. Crowley is the romantic, after all, and Aziraphale the one to get stuck in the status quo.

“Naaah,” Crowley says, and declines to elaborate.

“Well, in that case,” Aziraphale says, after a pause, “I s’pose I was waiting for you to ask, only you never did…”

“Hmm…” There’s a rustle of fabric as Crowley shifts around, then a yelp as he slips from the couch and hits the floor in an undignified heap. “Ow.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale stumbles forward out of his chair and drops to his knees beside Crowley. “Are you all right?”

Crowley grunts. “Brilliant.”

Aziraphale watches as Crowley flails his arms around. When that fails to accomplish anything, Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the shoulders and hoists him upright. He slips one hand down to Crowley’s back to steady him.

Crowley shudders.

“All right?” Aziraphale asks again.

“Mn,” Crowley mumbles. “Hand’s warm.”

On the contrary, Aziraphale is sure it’s Crowley’s back that is warm, very warm; he can feel the heat of it radiating through his shirt where his hand rests. Aziraphale finds himself desiring to know if Crowley is that warm all over.

Crowley is clad in all black, as is his wont: long-sleeved black shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing the dip of his collarbones; legs hugged by slim black trousers; feet snug in black business socks. The only skin readily available to Aziraphale is Crowley’s hands and face.

Before he can second-guess himself, Aziraphale lays his hand over the back of Crowley’s. Crowley’s hand twitches, and he makes a soft noise in his throat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, hushed and feeling rather more sober than he did a moment ago. “When’s the last time…”

“Last time what?”

“Someone touched you.”

Crowley shivers. “Long time.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He flips Crowley’s hand over in his and laces their fingers together. The friction as their palms slide against each other sends an electric frisson up Aziraphale’s arm. The jolt of it makes his heart skip a beat. “Me too.”

Crowley is quiet except for the sound of his breathing. Aziraphale waits for him to do something, but he doesn’t.

Aziraphale raises their joined hands between them so he can clasp Crowley’s hand with both his own. His thumb skitters across Crowley’s knuckles, and Crowley’s breath hitches.

“It’s you,” Aziraphale says.

“Wuh?”

“You said my hand was warm, but it’s you. Your back, your hand, everything. You’re very warm.”

Crowley shakes his head. He’s breathing out his mouth, lips parted just slightly. Aziraphale’s gaze is caught on them. It would be a simple matter to lean forward and kiss him.

The thought lands with intensity; Aziraphale startles at how strongly he wants to follow through. For the first time, he thinks that this is a bad idea. It’s a bad idea and it’s going to unearth feelings so well-buried that Aziraphale stubbornly refused to even acknowledge that they might be an issue. He should call it off, the whole thing. And he should definitely put some physical space between himself and Crowley.

The problem is, he’s finding it rather difficult to pull away.

Aziraphale realizes he has never seen Crowley quite like this, without his glasses and all close up. He can’t help but think how much more vulnerable Crowley looks, how open. He can see every little jitter of Crowley’s eyes as his gaze jumps all over Aziraphale’s face, as if searching for something.

In the end, he’s not sure which of them leans in first.

Crowley whimpers. His mouth is so warm and soft and Aziraphale needs more. Between one moment and the next, Aziraphale has dropped Crowley’s hand in favor of cupping his face—and yes, his cheeks are just as warm as everywhere else Aziraphale has touched. Aziraphale wants to sink deep into that warmth. He presses in and Crowley moves with him, soft as clay and moldable under Aziraphale’s touch.

It is dizzying. Aziraphale realizes, suddenly, that this is not just a bad idea; it is a terrible one. Long-repressed feelings are bubbling up, and he ought to stop before they boil over.

Then Crowley’s hands are in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers pressing into his scalp, and Aziraphale arches into the touch with a gasp. It’s shockingly intimate. Aziraphale would not have thought the top of his head would be something so sensitive, but Crowley’s fingers twist into Aziraphale’s hair and tug, and Aziraphale makes a sound close to a sob.

Crowley’s fingers loosen, and he starts to murmur against Aziraphale’s lips. “Sorr—”

Aziraphale wants to say _no_ , or _I liked it_ , or _don’t stop_. He also wants to keep kissing him Crowley. The second desire wins out, resulting in Aziraphale pushing into Crowley rather insistently and not saying words so much as making a sound like, “Mmph!”

They nearly topple over. Crowley catches them, levering one hand against the floor, and Aziraphale collides into his chest. Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s cheek with his thumb in wordless apology, mouth preoccupied, and Crowley slips the hand still in Aziraphale’s hair to the nape of his neck.

They kiss for what feels like forever, though it certainly can’t last more than a minute or two. By some silent agreement they break apart but remain close, noses touching, wine-soaked breath mingling in the centimeters between them. Aziraphale slides his hands down from Crowley’s face. One hand goes to Crowley’s shoulder; the other, he moves to Crowley’s side. He can feel the slight ridges of Crowley’s ribs where his hand rests, his fingers fitting perfectly in the dips.

For a minute, they just breathe.

“Fuck,” Crowley mumbles. He pulls his hand away from Aziraphale, then draws back with his entire body. He shudders.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Dunno. M’drunk.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He wonders if that means Crowley regrets it. Aziraphale doesn’t want to regret it, but they’re not touching at all anymore, and the warmth is seeping out of Aziraphale and he feels a seed of unease that may yet bloom into regret.

He loves Crowley. Of course he does. He’s loved him for so long that it’s become second nature. He also knows that his love is unreciprocated; any attempts Aziraphale ever made at flirting were either met with jokes or ignored completely. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to get the hint.

And it was fine; their friendship was precious enough already. And so for the next several years Aziraphale diligently ignored the bursting warmth that filled up his ribcage whenever Crowley smiled at him.

Shame, really. He was doing such a good job at it until tonight.

“I should go,” Crowley mumbles, pulling Aziraphale sharply from his thoughts.

“What? No,” he says. “I mean, it’s late. You can stay.” He swallows. “It’s not as if you haven’t before.”

After an extended silence, Crowley says, “‘Kay.”

Aziraphale rises to his feet. He offers a hand to pull Crowley up and his heart jolts when Crowley takes it. He forces himself to let go once Crowley stands, and curls his hand into a fist to stave off the urge to grab it again. It’s ridiculous; Aziraphale is not, by nature, a tactile person. He shouldn’t yearn so hard to feel Crowley’s hand in his again, to reclaim that warmth.

The occasions in which Crowley has stayed the night at Aziraphale’s flat before have been because he passed out on the couch and Aziraphale hadn’t the heart to wake him. Aziraphale tries not to think too hard about what it might mean that he’s now leading Crowley to his bedroom. He absolutely doesn’t think about what it might mean when he turns the lights on low and pulls a set of soft cotton pajamas from his wardrobe.

“Here, you can change into this. I can’t imagine those tight jeans of yours are at all comfortable to sleep in.”

Aziraphale hands the pajamas over, then excuses himself to the kitchen with a mumble. He drinks a glass of water, then stares into the empty glass for a full minute firmly telling himself to get it together. Things have been perfectly fine between them for years. He absolutely cannot let a drunken indiscretion muck it all up.

Right. Aziraphale draws in a deep breath, lets it out again. He has a handle on this.

He pours a glass of water for Crowley. He walks slowly back to the bedroom and gently raps on the closed door with his knuckles.

“Come in.”

Aziraphale has to bite down an embarrassing noise when he sees Crowley in his pajamas, baggy on Crowley’s significantly smaller frame. It’s adorable, and also doing little to quell Aziraphale’s urge to pull Crowley into his arms.

No! He has a handle on this!

“Here,” Aziraphale says, handing him the water. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“No, what, come on,” Crowley says. “It’s your place.”

“You know I don’t sleep much anyway,” Aziraphale says. “You may as well have the more comfortable bedding.”

“Or we can both…” Crowley stops. He grips the glass of water close to himself. “It’s a big bed. It’s…”

Aziraphale’s breath catches. If Crowley is asking for—well, there’s only one thing he could be asking for, isn’t there? He thought for sure that Crowley didn’t feel the same as he did, but what if he’s wrong? Aziraphale dares not presume, but if Crowley wants—if he _asks_ —

“S’been a long time,” Crowley says finally, voice soft. “Since either of us…”

It’s not the confirmation Aziraphale wanted, but it’s an excuse he’s willing to use. Just for tonight, he tells himself. Just for tonight, when his heart is aching with longing he’s never really allowed himself to feel. And then tomorrow he’ll wrap it all back up and everything will go back to normal.

“Yes,” he says. “All right. You get comfortable, I’m just going to wash up first.”

He goes to the bathroom across the hall, bringing pajamas to change into with him. When he returns to the bedroom, Crowley is under the covers on the left side of the bed, empty glass of water set on the nightstand. Aziraphale turns the lights off and climbs into the right side.

Aziraphale’s breaths are loud to his own ears as they lie in the darkness. He can’t seem to quiet them no matter how slowly or carefully he breathes and, in a fit of self-consciousness, ends up holding his breath until his eyes adjust to the pitch darkness and he can discern the shape of Crowley lying across from him.

It’s too dark to make out much. Aziraphale can’t even tell if Crowley’s eyes are open, but at least that means Crowley probably can’t see the way Aziraphale is staring at him, drinking him in as if he can see more than an indistinct shape.

They face each other but don’t touch, not at first. Then Aziraphale reaches out and brushes his thumb over Crowley’s wrist.

Crowley inhales sharply. Aziraphale brings his thumb to rest, and feels Crowley’s pulse fluttering beneath him. For a moment they are still. Then Crowley moves. He gently takes Aziraphale’s hand and turns it over. His fingertips map the expanse of Aziraphale’s palm, then slide up until they are touching only by the fingertips.

It’s such a small contact. Why, then, does Aziraphale feel so dizzy with it?

Crowley slots his fingers into the spaces between Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s chest is swelling with emotion he can hardly contain. It pushes into his throat, trying to form words. They refuse to take shape though, and so he lays there, choking, until eventually Crowley’s breathing deepens and evens out.

The words sink back into his chest. Aziraphale draws in a slow breath. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the way his hand burns, gently cradled in Crowley’s slack grip.

He thinks he will be awake for a long time yet, but he’s under before he even knows it.

* * *

Aziraphale really doesn’t sleep much; he never has. Although the curtains are drawn tightly shut, he knows it must be the early hours of the A.M. when he wakes. He also knows from prior experience that Crowley won’t awaken for several hours yet.

He turns to look at the other side of the bed. Crowley is a small lump under the covers, curled into a tight ball and hidden save for the messy spikes of red hair poking out from under the blanket. Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek and makes a valiant effort to not think that he’s adorable.

The Crowley-lump rises and falls with his steady breathing, and Aziraphale has the urge to rest his hand on him over the covers and be lulled by that gentle motion. He’s sure the warmth of Crowley would seep through even the blanket.

It’s a bad idea, though. Aziraphale has known since last night that it’s a bad idea, but this time there’s no inebriation to weaken his will.

He turns away. When Crowley is asleep, he’s dead to the world, and he doesn’t stir when Aziraphale slips out from under the blanket and rises from the mattress. Aziraphale crosses the room and turns the knob to pull the door softly shut behind him.

For a moment he rests his forehead against the closed door, eyes shut. He breathes out. The wood is cool against his skin, and it helps him think. He can’t quite bring himself to regret what happened between them, even though he knows it will have rocked the foundations of their precious friendship. He’s just so glad that, even once, he was able to feel the soft press of Crowley’s lips against his own.

But now it’s time to pack those feelings away again. It’s all for the best, really.

Aziraphale presses his palm flat against the door, allows himself one private smile, then turns and leaves the hall.

By the time Crowley staggers into the living room, it’s around 11 AM and Aziraphale is settled into his armchair, reading a novel with a book light to aid him.

“You know you can open the curtains,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale looks up, and his breath escapes him. Which is ridiculous, really, because Crowley has changed back into his own clothes and he looks much as he always does, except perhaps his hair is messier, obviously having been combed through with his fingers.

It’s his first proper look at Crowley since last night, though, and the urge to kiss him hits Aziraphale like a battering ram.

He can’t, though. He _can’t_.

Aziraphale realizes that Crowley is waiting for him to reply, only he can’t quite remember what Crowley said.

“Um,” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t mind wearing the glasses,” Crowley says.

Oh. Right.

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says. “I know you’re more comfortable like this.”

Crowley shrugs, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just saying, don’t wreck your eyes for the sake of mine, seeing as mine are already fucked.”

Aziraphale tuts. “You can’t tell me how to behave in my own home. Did you sleep well?”

Crowley stills. He drops his hand, shoulders going tense. “Yeah. Listen, about last night…”

He trails off uncomfortably, and Aziraphale swallows. It’s a good thing he’s had a good five hours of wakefulness over Crowley. He’s had the time to work out exactly what to say.

“We were drunk,” he says. “And it’d been a long time since either of us had been… intimate with anyone.” He blushes, and wishes he thought of a better word to describe hand-holding and a bit of a snog, but, well. It _was_ intimate. He clears his throat. “That is to say, it’s understandable that we got… caught up in the moment.”

It was just a physical reaction. That was it. It certainly wasn’t that Aziraphale was harboring deep-seated feelings of romantic love for his best friend.

Crowley laughs, strained. “Right. It didn’t actually mean anything, we don’t have to make a big deal of it.”

Aziraphale nods. He should be relieved that they’re on the same page, and that Crowley hasn’t realized the true depth of his feelings, but he can’t help but feel a bit disappointed, too. He wants it to have meant something. He wants Crowley to say that it meant something.

Clearly it didn’t. And he knew that. He did. But it seems some small part of him had hoped anyway, and now finds itself crushed.

“I’m sorry for getting carried away,” Aziraphale says. “We don’t have to go through with this pretend relationship nonsense at the party. It’s all rather silly, I know…”

“What?” Crowley perks up. “No! We can still do it.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. He wants to stop them before he gets carried away again, do something he really can’t take back. But he can’t exactly explain why he wants to call the whole thing off.

“Well, we don’t have to concern ourselves with appearing overly affectionate,” he bargains.

“Come onnn, I have to see Gabriel’s reaction. You know what he said when Beelzebub told him it was impossible to get the feature done in the time he wanted? He quoted the company slogan. _Miracles are what we do_. Yeah, shut _up_ , Gabe. Look, I need this. I need to see his stupid face when he thinks we’re married and that you’re actually an affectionate sap.”

Crowley is grinning by the end of his rant, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back, utterly fond.

“Well… I must admit I was looking forward to Gabriel’s reaction, too.”

“Yeah, don’t pretend that wasn’t the entire reason you dragged me into this scheme.”

Aziraphale can’t answer without lying, so he doesn’t. “In that case,” he says, “why don’t we hammer out the final details of our story over brunch?”

* * *

By the end of brunch, Aziraphale feels much better about everything. Sitting with Crowley at a shaded table outside their favorite café, everything feels light and easy. Familiar, like their lunch breaks. Not at all like sitting on the floor of Aziraphale’s darkened room, close enough to share breath.

Last night may have been… a mistake? Not one he regrets. A bad idea? Probably. Last night was a lot, is what it was, but they got through it.

Aziraphale has been in love with Crowley for years and it’s been fine. There’s no reason things can’t keep being fine. They’ll have a workweek just as usual, they’ll have fun at the party, and things will keep on being the way they’ve always been.

Unfortunately, things don’t work out quite that way. For one thing, Aziraphale has to endure his coworkers whispering about his mystery spouse. The different pronouns throw them all for a loop at first, but it’s not too hard to realize that he, she, and they were all the same person and that Gabriel was purposefully messing with them.

After that, conversation naturally turns to debating what sort of person Aziraphale’s spouse must be. Aziraphale takes offense to the suggestions that whoever they are must be as drab as Aziraphale. Aziraphale knows _he’s_ boring, but Crowley is _cool_ , and certainly doesn’t deserve to get lumped in with him like this.

To make matters worse, Aziraphale doesn’t get to see Crowley at all for lunch the whole of next week, as he’s stuck in the office through his breaks working on the last-minute feature. The most Aziraphale gets is aggrieved texts about working with Hastur.

Aziraphale endures. He entertains himself with a crossword app on his phone during lunch. He still prefers to take a pen to the Daily Telegraph, but Crowley convinced him a while back to download a couple crossword games on his phone, and Aziraphale has to admit that having an endless supply of crossword puzzles at his disposal is a powerful feeling.

Since he knows Crowley won’t be available for lunch anyway, Aziraphale takes his lunch on Wednesday in the office. He brings some leftover fish from home and reheats it in the office microwave.

Aziraphale hasn’t been replying to most of Crowley’s texts, because typing on his phone is tedious and Crowley knows Aziraphale always reads his messages anyway. He replies on Wednesday, though, and tells him about Gabriel complaining about the stink in the break room. He figures Crowley could also use the pick-me-up, given the week he’s having.

When Crowley replies ( _you are SUCH a bastard, best spouse_ ), Aziraphale feels better than he has since the week started.

It’s nice to feel like Crowley’s with him even if he can’t see him; it helps him get through the workday. He’s never really realized before just how much he takes comfort in Crowley’s constancy.

This is far from the first time he’s had to go a few days without lunch with Crowley, but it is the first time since… well, since glimpsing his own long-secreted feelings, and now he seems to feel Crowley’s absence even more keenly than he has before. Aziraphale has to tell himself, more than once, that he’s missing his best friend. _Friend_ , and not anything else.

Friday evening can’t come fast enough.

* * *

On Friday, Crowley arrives at Aziraphale’s flat at 5:30 PM sharp.

“You’re wearing tartan,” Aziraphale says, shocked and pointing at the pocket square tucked into Crowley’s chest pocket. Until this precise moment, he would have said with confidence that Crowley wouldn’t be caught dead wearing tartan.

“‘Course I am,” Crowley says. “I’ve got to match with my spouse.” He gestures to the tartan bow tie around Aziraphale’s collar. “You’re predictable. I can’t believe our marriage has grown so dull.”

Aziraphale makes a show of rolling his eyes, though he in fact wants to smile rather stupidly. Being with Crowley just feels so good and easy.

He gestures to Crowley’s—well, everything. Crowley has opted for a deep red button-down, but—aside from the out-of-place tartan pocket square—everything else is black with a streamlined fit. “And you’re not predictable?”

“You couldn’t have known I was going to wear this,” Crowley says. “I didn’t even know I was going to wear this. I had another shirt and at least two dresses as options. Gotta keep it fresh.” He flourishes a pocket square that matches the color of his shirt. “For you.”

“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale says.

He reaches to take it, but Crowley bats his hand away lightly and tucks the cloth into Aziraphale’s pocket himself. He steps in close to do it, and Aziraphale trembles on his exhale. He feels warmer just standing next to Crowley, and he has to fight the urge to lean into him.

Crowley withdraws. He gives Aziraphale a crooked grin and offers up an arm. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale takes it. His fingers spasm but don’t dig into Crowley’s bicep. He won’t let them.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and smiles pleasantly. “We shall.”

* * *

“You’re married to Crowley from Engineering,” Gabriel says.

If Gabriel didn’t think the whole thing was a sham before, he definitely thinks so now.

Crowley throws an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders before he can even begin to stutter out a reply. “And isn’t he the luckiest bastard?”

He starts to fight the urge to melt into Crowley’s embrace, and then doesn’t. Because why should he? He’s supposed to be convincing everyone that they’re madly in love, after all. At least, this is what he tells himself, pointedly ignoring the part of his mind that knows that if he sinks into Crowley’s warmth again, he may never come back up.

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, then turns and directs the look to Gabriel. “Yes, yes I am.”

“How long have you been married?” Gabriel asks.

“Ah, two years now, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley. “Though we’ve been together for some time.”

“Mm. Sorry I never came to any of your shindigs before. Frankly, I just don’t like you guys,” Crowley says to Gabriel.

Aziraphale swats him. Crowley plants a wet kiss on his cheek.

“Though I hear you have better food than we get down in Engineering,” Crowley says. “So I figured I could play nice for a couple hours. Ooh, shrimp cocktails!”

Crowley detaches himself from Aziraphale only to hook his hand into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm. He tugs him along to the buffet table while Aziraphale gives Gabriel a feeble wave.

“Oh my God,” Crowley snickers into Aziraphale’s ear. “Gabriel has no idea what to do with the fact that we’re married.”

“It would seem we’ve thrown him,” Aziraphale agrees distractedly, currently more interested in the spread of food and drink before them.

Crowley grabs a shrimp cocktail. “Oh, go on, then,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“You want to drink, drink. We’re at a posh winery paid for by our bosses. It’d be a crime _not_ to drink.”

“Oh, but…” Aziraphale fidgets. This place _is_ very upscale. Aziraphale usually has to save the wines in this price range for very special occasions—those special occasions, of course, being Fridays with Crowley where they both agree it’s been a _week_. But still…

“You feel bad that I can’t drink, because I’m driving,” Crowley guesses accurately. “It’s fine, angel.”

“‘Angel’?” Michael says, and clears her throat awkwardly when Aziraphale and Crowley both jerk towards her.

Crowley spins on his heel, a broad grin on his face. “Isn’t he just?”

“Er,” Michael says.

“He’s such a sweetheart, he is, my Aziraphale,” Crowley says emphatically. “An absolute angel.”

Aziraphale stares hard at the table in front of him and tries not to laugh. In fact, the first time Crowley ever called him _angel_ was the day they met, when they were both in the lift in the lobby. Michael, walking briskly towards them, called for them to hold the door. Aziraphale, who had perhaps been panicking just slightly about an upcoming performance review, reached out—

—and clicked the _close door_ button.

 _So sorry_ , Aziraphale said as the door slid shut in Michael’s face. _Button must be broken._

Crowley looked at him appraisingly from behind dark glasses and said, dripping sarcasm, _Well, aren’t you an angel?_

Still, even though Aziraphale knows Crowley doesn’t use the word in quite the same way other people call their darlings, it’s such an old nickname that it’s hard not to imagine that Crowley is saying it with fondness on occasion, and it’s even harder not to feel a warm curl of pleasure at the idea.

Crowley is definitely laying it on thick right now and probably sabotaging their charade, but Aziraphale can’t find it in him to stop Crowley’s fun. He faces Michael, letting his shoulder brush Crowley’s as he turns, and hides his smile behind his glass of wine.

Michael seems to have recovered from the shock of hearing Crowley’s pet name. Her eyes flick between the two of them and she thins her lips. “Gabriel said you’ve been married two years?”

“Yup,” Crowley says. “Here, angel.”

He holds out a piece of shrimp. Aziraphale looks at it. He looks at Crowley. He looks at Michael, then the shrimp, then Crowley again.

He leans in and delicately takes the shrimp into his mouth.

“How is it that no one in either of our departments knew about your relationship?” Michael asks.

“Either of our departments?” Crowley parrots. “You chummy with Engineering all of a sudden?”

He ignores Michael’s stammering response in favor of licking the tips of his fingers clean of shrimp, and Aziraphale finds that he can no longer focus on Michael either. He thinks she says something, maybe, “Enjoy the party,” before she stalks off.

“Wanker,” Crowley mutters.

He offers Aziraphale another shrimp. Aziraphale tries not to panic at how close Crowley’s fingers—that he just licked!—are to his mouth. He mostly succeeds, but he feels a little breathless still when he suggests that they should get plates and a proper meal.

Unfortunately, the scrutiny doesn’t end with Gabriel and Michael. Moments after they settle at a table with their food-laden plates, Uriel and Sandalphon slide into the vacant seats across from them.

After some excruciating small talk, Uriel says blandly, “It’s hard to believe that none of us ever heard anything about a wedding.”

Crowley shoots a bland look right back and says, “If none of you heard about one it’s because none of you were invited. You didn’t miss the part where I don’t like you guys, did you?”

Aziraphale digs his heel into Crowley’s foot under the table. Hopefully Crowley gets that he’s being scolded for going off-script. Crowley is probably relishing in riling Aziraphale’s colleagues, but if he keeps this up, their ruse is certain to be uncovered.

“We didn’t have a wedding,” Aziraphale says, because that’s what they decided last week. “Weddings are expensive, and you know how work can get… It seemed easier not to have a wedding.”

Uriel doesn’t seem convinced, and Crowley starts complaining about how many date nights BD has personally ruined for him, a poor soul just trying to get by in Engineering, and can you imagine trying to plan a _wedding_ around you bastards’ whims? Uriel switches tracks and asks if they did anything for their honeymoon.

Somehow, they endure the rest of the meal, fending off all the other probing questions about their relationship. Well, mostly Crowley does. Aziraphale is busy trying to get his feelings under control.

The wine was probably a bad idea. He’s not drunk by any means, but there’s a familiar pleasant warmth that makes it a little too easy to lean into Crowley’s side without worry. It doesn’t help that Crowley keeps his hand casually on Aziraphale’s thigh, giving him the occasional squeeze to get his attention as he talks.

This is fake, Aziraphale reminds himself dizzily. This thing they’re doing. They’re not actually married, not even close. Just because they say they didn’t have a honeymoon but still have plans to go to Paris someday doesn’t mean they’ll actually do it.

As usual, Crowley only finishes half his plate. But instead of pushing his plate in front of Aziraphale for him to finish, Crowley lifts forkfuls of food directly to Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale lets it happen, lets Crowley feed him, his stomach fluttering with every bite.

But it doesn’t mean anything.

Finally, dinner winds down. Uriel and Sandalphon either get bored or give up, and leave.

“Quite the interrogation,” Crowley mutters when they finally have the table to themselves.

“We did well, I think,” Aziraphale says.

“Michael’s been furiously texting in that corner for the past half hour.”

“And Gabriel has been staring at us for just as long.”

They look at each other and break out into twin grins, and even as Aziraphale’s stomach twists with too much emotion, he is so _fond_. Crowley really is his best friend.

“Well, that was fun,” Crowley says. “Why don’t we go get another bite of all your favorites, and then we can head out?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

No sooner have they stood are they approached by a dark-haired woman Aziraphale doesn’t know, followed by the intern, Newton. She’s awfully stern-faced, and Aziraphale hopes he’s not about to be subjected to even more interrogation.

The woman marches up to Crowley.

“I’m Anathema,” she says, sticking her hand out. Crowley takes it. “This is my boyfriend, Newt. You’re an engineer?”

“Sure am,” Crowley says.

Anathema elbows Newt forward. “Newt is interested in engineering.”

Newton’s face twists into a half-smile, half-grimace. He gives an awkward little wave. “Er, hi.”

“Cool,” Crowley says. “What’re you doing interning with these pricks?”

“Oh, well, I’m actually a Business major, you see…” Newton chews his bottom lip, then explains the winding journey to his major.

By the end of it, Aziraphale is fidgeting and shooting furtive glances at the dwindling amount of food left on the buffet table, and Crowley nudges him with his elbow.

“Oh, go get your snack before we go. I can hear you fidgeting.”

“I am not,” Aziraphale protests, but he goes.

He’s still at the buffet table, nibbling on some gravlax when Gabriel comes up beside him.

“I have to say, you and Crowley? Never saw that coming. I really wouldn’t have expected you two to work, but you do.”

“Er,” Aziraphale says. “Thank you?”

“You heard about the bet, didn’t you,” Gabriel says.

“Ah, um.” Aziraphale flounders. Gabriel doesn’t sound accusatory, so he warily replies, “Difficult not to.”

“Thought so.” Gabriel nods. “Definitely not happy about losing money to that kid, but I can’t be too mad.”

“N…no?” Aziraphale says.

“I mean, really. I’ve never seen you so relaxed as tonight, and Crowley obviously thinks the world of you. I’m happy for you,” Gabriel says. “I hope you bring Crowley with you to more of our events in the future.”

“Um—”

“You should really join us for bowling next time. Or an escape room! Great bonding experience, escape rooms. We’re all family here, you know,” Gabriel continues earnestly. It’s possible that he’s not even registering whatever uncomfortable look is definitely stuck on Aziraphale’s face. “I’m sure Crowley wants to get to know their spouse’s friends better, huh?”

Aziraphale, who has always disliked the whole _this team is a family_ attitude and certainly doesn’t consider Gabriel or any of his colleagues in BD to be his friends, nods politely.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, with zero intentions of doing so.

Gabriel nods approvingly. “Good, good.” He pats Aziraphale’s arm, except it feels more like a whack. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Aziraphale rubs his arm absently as Gabriel takes his leave. He looks at Crowley talking animatedly to Newton and Anathema. Did Crowley really come off tonight as thinking the world of him? Aziraphale reflects on all of Crowley’s over-the-top behavior tonight. Surely, he thought, no one was fooled by that.

But still, there would be moments… Like Crowley’s fond little smile as he fed Aziraphale shrimp. The way he would turn his head to watch Aziraphale attentively every time he spoke, the way he’d take Aziraphale’s hand in his. Every peck on his cheek, an unassuming, soft dry brush of lips, so casual at times it seemed an almost unthinking gesture. Like it was something he did all the time.

Is it possible that it’s not all an act?

By the time Aziraphale makes his way back to Crowley, the conversation has moved on from Newton’s career goals to what is, apparently, the hot topic of discussion for tonight.

“We didn’t have a wedding,” Crowley is saying as Aziraphale reaches his side and slips his hand into the crook of his arm. Crowley flashes him a small smile. “I already waited so long for him to propose that when he finally did, I didn’t want to wait anymore, and neither did he. So we just… got married. No fuss. Honestly liked it that way more than I thought I would.” His voice goes soft and considering. “We keep meaning to at least get rings, but s’just one of those things we keep putting off, you know? I don’t need it anyway. I know he’s mine.”

Aziraphale’s chest constricts. Crowley makes it sound so real; Aziraphale could almost believe it himself.

He wants it to be real. He wants so much for it to be real.

“All right, angel?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale realizes how tightly he’s gripping Crowley’s arm and loosens his hold. “Perfectly, my dear.” And then, because they’re both pretending, because he can get away with it, because he’s so full up on it at the moment that something _has_ to give, he says, “I love you.”

Crowley’s lip quirks. “Love you, too.” To Anathema and Newton, he says, “Honestly, sometimes he acts like we just got married last week. He’s adorable.”

Aziraphale tightens his grip again, this time in warning. “I am not.”

“Hmm, yes you are,” Crowley says, and pecks him right on the lips. Aziraphale can feel the curl of his mouth into a smile before he pulls away.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley, dazed and speechless until Crowley pats his hand and says, “See? I’m right.”

Somehow, Aziraphale pushes some words out past his lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m the love of your life,” Crowley says flippantly, not even realizing how the words are a fist around Aziraphale’s heart. “ _Any_ way, you ready to go?”

Aziraphale nods, managing a shaky goodbye to Anathema and Newton before Crowley leads him out the winery and back to his car.

What Crowley said, about why they didn’t have a wedding—they didn’t come up with that together. Aziraphale would never have imagined Crowley’s explanation, and yet he cannot deny how _right_ it feels.

Crowley is romantic enough to want a beautiful wedding, but he’s also romantic enough to throw away tradition in exchange for getting married immediately; and Aziraphale is in love enough to follow along. They would probably have some form of private ceremony, just the two of them, and a most delicious dinner before retiring for the loveliest evening.

Is Crowley’s answer a total fabrication, or does it ring of secret honesty? Aziraphale cannot help but think it does. And now that they’re in Crowley’s Bentley and on the quiet road home, he can’t help but wonder whether Crowley will say something now that they’re alone.

Because if this is real, if Aziraphale isn’t imagining it, then surely Crowley will say something, because Crowley always says something. He was the one who spoke to Aziraphale first, all those years ago. And he’s always the one to tempt him into trying new things—admittedly, they are things Aziraphale is curious about but hesitant to try, because change is hard. And Crowley knows that. He likes convincing Aziraphale and grinning smugly when Aziraphale admits that he was right.

But he’s quiet. All through the drive, Crowley is quiet. Aziraphale tries several times to say something, but, like that night sharing a bed, the words seem to get jammed up in his throat.

Crowley will say something. He must. So Aziraphale waits, fingers picking at nonexistent lint on his lap, hoping and hoping.

Crowley says nothing.

They’re nearly back to Aziraphale’s flat now without a word passed between them. Aziraphale swallows, puts on an aggrieved tone, and says, “Gabriel said I should bring you to team bowling. So you can get to know _the family_.”

“Eugh!” Crowley says with evident mirth. “Thought you didn’t like bowling.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says. Doesn’t say, _But I’d go with you, if that’s what you wanted. I’d do anything with you._ “He also suggested an escape room.”

“Even worse. I would literally rather do one with Hastur and Ligur. I mean, can you imagine being trapped in a room with Gabriel for an hour?” Crowley shudders.

“Try eight hours a day, five days a week,” Aziraphale says, and though that’s technically not true, Crowley bursts into laughter.

Aziraphale grins, feeling warmed and settled.

All too soon, they’re pulling up to the curb outside Aziraphale’s flat. Aziraphale steps out of the Bentley. Crowley does too, and leans casually over the top of it.

“Thank you for tonight,” Aziraphale says, meaning it in more ways than he is brave enough to voice. “I know mingling with my colleagues isn’t your ideal evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Crowley says. “I got free food _and_ hot goss about Gabriel. I’m about to score so many points with Beelzebub.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale says mildly.

He hesitates. The easy air that they found toward the end of the drive evaporates and silence hangs between them, uncomfortable.

“I should be heading back—”

“Would you like to come in?”

Aziraphale closes his mouth and swallows. His stomach turns over, but he can’t take it back. He watches Crowley nervously.

“Nnnah,” Crowley says, at length. “Better not. I mean, ‘s late. Should be going.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Mmhm.”

“Right,” he says again. “Well. Good night, Crowley.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches. “Good night, Aziraphale.”

* * *

The weekend passes quietly. Normally, this is how all of Aziraphale’s weekends pass, and normally, Aziraphale enjoys the time to himself. However, after the party, after Crowley’s warmth and closeness, Aziraphale is on edge.

After reflecting on the night of the party some more, he’s almost certain that Crowley returns Aziraphale’s feelings for him. The thought makes him giddy and nervous.

Crowley must intend to say something. He must.

Aziraphale waits for a call. He’s never wished more for his phone to ring—he’s fairly sure he’s never wished for that at all, until now. He tries on numerous occasions to settle into his armchair with a book and hot cocoa, but finds he cannot concentrate for more than a few pages before his thoughts inevitably drift back to Crowley and the wistful edge to his voice when he said _I know he’s mine._

He waits. He thinks that he surely can’t be wrong, he can’t have been imagining the fondness in that kiss. That was real.

But no call comes.

Maybe Crowley is waiting until they can be face-to-face again?

Aziraphale sees Crowley for lunch on Monday, as usual. Aziraphale gets to the food court first, and when Crowley arrives, he slides into the bench across from Aziraphale. It’s how they’ve been sitting for years, but Aziraphale now finds himself disappointed that Crowley didn’t sit beside him.

He wishes he’d arrived second instead, then wonders if he would have been brave enough to sit next to Crowley even if he had. Aziraphale has never been good at instigating change.

The moment Crowley sits down, he launches into a rant about Hastur, which Aziraphale politely listens and nods in sympathy to while quietly growing ever more confused, frustrated, and a little bit anxious.

And then he notes Crowley’s voice, just a little too loud. His hand, trembling around his fork. And he thinks of Crowley’s swift assertion that Aziraphale would be the one to propose in their pretend relationship, and he realizes, “You’re never going to say anything, are you?”

“Huh?” Crowley—who in retrospect has been saying a lot of things, Aziraphale will give him that—says.

“About your feelings for me,” Aziraphale clarifies.

“ _What?_ ” Crowley rears back, nearly falling off the bench seat. “I don’t—I—”

“You do love me, don’t you?” Aziraphale says. Oh, what if he got it wrong? “During the party, the way you spoke to me… spoke _of_ me, I couldn’t help but think—”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley blurts. “It doesn’t have to change anything. I don’t expect anything from you.”

“My dear, why ever would you be sorry?”

“Um, because we were playing a stupid joke, except I couldn’t keep my feelings under wraps and now you know I’m a pathetic mess who’s been in love with you since forever?” Crowley hunches more and more as he speaks, and by the end of it, his shoulders are up to his ears.

“But—no, you see, I love you, too,” Aziraphale says.

“You _what_?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale realizes his mistake.

“Ah. I perhaps should have led with that.”

Crowley laughs once, sharp and manic-edged. “You think? You—I mean, you—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “But I didn’t know you felt the same until Friday.”

“If you knew, if you realized, then why didn’t you say something?” Crowley is half-standing from his seat, brows raised to his hairline, voice a frantic hiss like he wants to shout but is conscious that they’re in public.

Aziraphale feels a bit defensive now, and he says, “I was waiting for you to say something!”

This seems to be the final straw to break Crowley’s control. “Why did I have to be the one to say something?” he all but screeches.

“Because I’m rubbish at this!” Aziraphale says, throwing his hands up. “Clearly!”

Crowley drops back into his seat. He gawps at Aziraphale.

“You see,” Aziraphale says, fumingly. “If you’d said something, it would have been lovely and romantic, but you didn’t, so I had to, and now we’re shouting at each other. This is why you should have been the one to propose, you know.”

“Wait, are you proposing to me right now?”

“No! I meant in the pretend—the backstory, you know, you said I proposed, I didn’t mean right now—although, please don’t think, that is to say, you must know I wouldn’t really mind if—Crowley!” Aziraphale scolds, finally noticing the grin on Crowley’s face.

“You really are rubbish at this,” Crowley says, but his smile is too broad and genuine to be just teasing.

“I told you,” Aziraphale mutters.

“So,” Crowley says.

“So,” Aziraphale says. “Glad we got that sorted.”

Crowley snorts.

The next minute passes in silence, save for the scrape of forks on cardboard.

“You know,” Crowley says. “I did try to say something. Years ago.”

“What?” Aziraphale thinks he definitely would have remembered that. “When? What did you say?”

Crowley throws his arms out and gestures expansively. “What didn’t I say? I was flirting with you for a very long time, you know. Sometimes I even thought you were flirting back.”

“When did you stop?”

“Ohhh,” Crowley says, “about the time I realized I didn’t just like you, I was in love with you.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley lays his hand over his, and the words get lost in a breathy exhale.

“Figured by then you weren’t interested,” Crowley says, rubbing his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale has to suppress a shiver. “And I’d rather have you as a friend than not at all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “That’s. Much the same reason I never said anything.”

Crowley chuckles. “We’re both messes, aren’t we?”

“Well, I know I am,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t expect you to be.”

“Uh,” Crowley says. He leans back and gestures at himself. “You do know me, don’t you? I’m probably the biggest mess there is.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is so.”

“You’re very cool,” Aziraphale argues.

“If you believe that, it _must_ be love,” Crowley says, and his tone is light, but Aziraphale doesn’t miss the clench in his jaw when he stops talking.

“I do love you,” Aziraphale says, and realizes right then how to prove it.

He stands, walks around the table to Crowley’s side, and drops to one knee.

“Ngk—Aziraphale?”

“I am sorry I don’t have a ring, I _will_ get you one, I know you’d like one no matter what you said last night, well, if you actually want this, anyway—oh, blast it,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley, will you marry me?”

“Get up here,” Crowley says hoarsely. He swings his legs around the bench and stands, and tugs Aziraphale up and into a crushing hug. “Yes, yes, _yes_ , of course. Of course, yes.”

Scattered applause breaks out around them, and Aziraphale remembers that they are in fact in the middle of a crowded cafeteria.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says.

“Who cares,” Crowley says. He buries his face in Aziraphale, glasses pushing awkwardly into his neck. His arms are locked tight around him. “Who cares, when you—oh God, when you love me.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, and finds that he doesn’t care about the audience, either, not when the only thing he can pay attention to is Crowley’s warmth all around him, so close he can feel their hearts pounding in tandem. He wants to have Crowley this close, always. “And now that I’ve gone to the trouble of proposing, I do hope you don’t plan to call the whole thing off five months from now.”

“Never,” Crowley says. “You’re stuck with me now, forever and ever.”

“Well, that sounds simply perfect.”

Crowley makes a choked noise. “I love you. By the way. Just realized I hadn’t said it properly yet.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He strokes gentle fingers through Crowley’s hair. “We can have a wedding, or not. We can go to Paris, or not. Whatever you want. The details don’t matter, as long as I’m with you.”

After all, he already has everything he wants, right here in his arms.

Crowley shudders against him. He turns and presses a kiss to the side of Aziraphale’s head. “And you said you’re not good at this.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading and happy holidays!! <3 you can also find me on [tumblr](https://qorktrees.tumblr.com/)


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